


an extension of more than one love (this was a long time coming)

by emilycmbl



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Christmas Presents, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gift Giving, Identity Reveal, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Secret Identity, idk where this is going, more tags to be added as this continues (probably), not ship. come on now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-09-25 09:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilycmbl/pseuds/emilycmbl
Summary: Spider-Man is constantly giving to his city. It's about time someone gave back.





	1. parents always do this

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'baby brothers' by will connolly

“Miles! You’re artistic.”

Technically speaking, the phrase was a statement. Comprised of two words (three, counting the contraction), a noun, an adjective (a verb, counting the contraction), with a period to finish it off. No question mark. No exclamation point. A straightforward delivery of facts. 

“Yeah?”

It was an answer to a question that wasn’t technically asked, and in itself it wasn’t really an answer, not if that age old proverb (was it a proverb? Or more of a saying — a turn of phrase? Grammatical rule?) of answering questions with another question was true. It was the most basic form of acknowledgement without slipping into the dangerous territory of being impolite; one step above a non-verbal grunt in recognition of the sort-of-statement-sort-of-question-thing or just putting his phone down and staring at his father. It was the most respectful way to leave off the “And? What about it?” at the end with it still having been heard.

Miles knew what was coming next.

“I need your help.”

He put his phone down and walked to where his dad was sitting across the room, stifling a sigh that could be misinterpreted as the greatly feared ‘teenage attitude’ — he was fine with helping his dad, and genuinely did want to, it’s just that there are some things parents almost intentionally take the wrong way. So his release of all the burdens that come with his old age of fourteen years upon getting up from his seat were postponed until he could let loose as Spider-Man, or maybe when he could just sit back down in his original seat.

“What’s up?”

Now came the part that Miles wouldn’t be able to guess with as much accuracy. Up until then it had been a script — a short one, sure, but one that he could have predicted right from when his dad had exclaimed his name in just that _particular_ tone of voice. His dad turned his laptop towards him as he sat down, and although he was used to almost anything he could have needed his help with (“The banner looks great, Dad.” “You don’t think it’s in poor taste to say ‘Come back later for your sanity’?” “It’s fine, Dad.” Maternity leave banners weren’t really Miles’s field of expertise), not much could have thrown him for a loop quite as effectively as what his dad was showing him.

“I’m not sure what to put in this blank space.”

Miles wasn’t sure what to think of it at all. Why didn’t any of his spidey powers come with the ability to predict the future? He wasn’t prepared for this. Miles was pretty sure that these weekend visits to his parents were eventually going to be the death of him.

“Dad, is this…?”

“What? I thought it would be nice.”

“Is this from the department?”

“Oh. No, this is…” He cleared his throat.

“…From you?” Miles wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or hug the life out of his dad. “I thought…”

His dad shifted in his seat as his face fell. “Look, the guy is actually…helpful sometimes, and I figured — hey, it’s Christmas, and he already gets enough of a bad rep from the press, and—”

“No, it’s great, Dad! He’ll love it!”

His dad looked at him and blinked. Miles tried to control his overjoyed grin down to a supportive smile. His dad nodded.

“Hm. Well, he’d better.”

_Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod._

Miles shot up from his seat. “Oh! Uh…” He picked up his phone from where he’d put it on the coffee table. “Ganke is…calling me, I have to…”

He dashed to his bedroom, hoping his dad didn’t realise his phone was quite the opposite of being blown up. It was imploding. From the lack of notifications. Well, whatever — adults don’t know all that much about technology, anyway, do they?

 

* * *

The door slammed behind Miles and Jefferson blinked. He looked back down to his laptop, where the unfinished Christmas card file lay open on his desktop, still having received no help from his far more artistically gifted son. The problem was, Jefferson _knew_ something wasn’t right with the layout, but didn’t have the eye Miles had when it came to fixing it. There was also the issue of how he was going to get it to Spider-Man at all in time for the holiday…

Well, he’d figure something out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i'm trying my best to get at least some of this up before christmas
> 
> follow me on tumblr @king--gary
> 
> thanks for reading!


	2. some love and recognition? for MY spider-man? it’s more likely than you think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all your nice comments on the first chapter!! i loved them i just sadly couldn’t figure out a way to reply to them all without saying the same thing over and over again skfghkl (which would basically just be thank you so much!! i’m so glad you guys like this so far!) so overall thank you for commenting!! they all made me so happy :’)
> 
> please enjoy!

There was a certain type of energy building up in Miles that he couldn’t quite name. 

It was something to the tune of part excitement, part astonishment, part overwhelming appreciation and part needing to scream. He paced around his room, half talking to himself.

“Oh my _god,_ ” he hissed. “What the hell? I can’t believe this. Oh, my god…” he descended into mutterings. 

What was he supposed to do? 

Well, accept the card, of course. 

But how was he supposed to act? Surprised? He had already seen it! 

Well, he could always act exceedingly grateful. Or modest. Or respectful. Indebted. Contented. Pleased. Other synonyms. 

So, Miles supposed, this wasn’t really something to freak out over. More like…something to gush over. Loudly, perhaps, and maybe in excess. He breathed in and out slowly to calm his jittering nerves. 

He needed to get out of the house. 

It wasn’t actually that long ago that Miles had figured out the quickest and quietest way to sneak out from his room, but he’d never tell his parents that one of the many reasons he wasn’t all that jazzed to go to a boarding school was because he didn’t want to put that route to waste now that he’d found it. As he made his way through his window he did give pause for a second, resting on the pane — he was sneaking away on one of the two days a week that he was able to see his parents.

_But,_ he figured, it really was only for a quick swing through the streets. It would be like he never even left. 

Ten minutes, he decided, and closed the window behind him.

He suit was a second skin on his body as he fell through the sky, the wind trailing adoring fingers across him as he slipped through the skyscrapers. His webs weren’t a lifeline. Less were they the link between him and not failing, but more a vine along which he was allowed to grow — to flourish; bloom. The pull of his muscles as he hoisted himself up and up again over the skyline never failed to grant him that blissful pain of only just overextending oneself, before free falling, if not for one too-short second. He fell. Again and again, he fell. He let himself fall, the split second before the earth would greet him acting as the only window of opportunity for him to rise again. He twisted and turned through the streets, like the buildings were a maze, and where the exit was only he knew. He laughed.

He dove, falling into a front flip, and cheered. His voice left his body in triumph, bursting from his lungs like it never wanted to return — it was for the world now, and never again for him. As he landed he could feel it echoing through the streets and through the buildings, still bouncing around in the blood rushing through his veins. He was on top of the world now, or at least on top of the mall a couple blocks from his home, and again he laughed. 

“Whoo! Yeah!” He called from the building top.

A couple of cars down below honked in response. He saluted to them. 

All of a sudden the evening air sent a biting chill down his spine, reminding him that it only liked him when he was swinging through it. Its prickling and unforgiving breath only served to instil the spirit of the season in him, though, and he remembered why swinging through Brooklyn in the dead of December and shivering on the top of a skyscraper with very little layers had seemed like such a great idea in the first place. 

His dad wanted to give Spider-Man a Christmas card. 

His dad! 

_Spider-Man!_

He felt like laughing all over again. 

By all accounts, it certainly wasn't the _biggest_ gesture. Maybe it didn’t warrant a near nighttime-swing through the city in temperatures that definitely _felt_ sub-zero. But there were a few things to consider.

First of all, a fact: Miles had taken on the Spider-Man mantle for nearly a year, now. He knew what he was doing. He was basically a pro. The city knew who he was, and they knew he was here to stay. Many of his enemies had also gotten that hint. 

It had been almost a year, but the wound of Peter Parker was still fresh. And there weren’t many of those who didn’t approve of the new Spider-Man that hadn’t managed to find some way to get their voice heard. But at the very least, Miles could somewhat understand them. It was coming closer to the anniversary of Peter’s death, and Miles still didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it. Give a speech? Make a memorial? Do nothing?

With Miles being so close off the tails of Peter Parker, he found it easy to forgive New York for not getting him a nice, shiny birthday present. Or any present. Or much of anything. But hey, he had a responsibility, and gratitude wasn’t part of the agreement. 

(Though some form of a pay check would be nice. Just saying.)

Secondly, Miles knew his dad. He knew what he was like. He knew his opinions on Spider-Man.

Actually, scratch that. He knew his opinions on Peter-Parker-Spider-Man: he’d hated him.

Well. They hadn’t really talked about it. 

Miles knew he was going to miss his old home life when starting at Brooklyn Visions, but he had never quite taken stock of just how many conversations a day he had with his parents. And when he didn’t see them five days of the week, way too much talking got crammed into far too little time, and needless to say, Spider-Man wasn’t a topic that got brought up a lot. 

That, and, Miles was cautious to avoid the topic entirely lest he somehow managed to out himself to his parents with one careless slip of the tongue. So his home life wasn’t that great an insight on how his dad felt about Miles-Morales-Spider-Man. 

That’s not to say that his interactions with him in the suit gave him much indication, either; if anything it gave him an even more muddled view of who he thought his dad was.

Sort of. 

Kinda?

His relationship with his father while he was Spider-Man was…weird, to say the least, but if he was being honest, a lot of it was probably his fault. He just didn’t know how to conduct himself. There was probably some slight overcompensation on his end in the department of ‘Yes, We Are Totally Strangers, No, Officer, I’ve Never Seen You Before In My Life, Who Are You? Where Am I? What’s Happening? Okay, Bye,’ but the Decorated Officer Davis had made it clear to Spider-Man multiple times that he disapproved of his methods, his late hours, the lack of backup when dealing with armed criminals, and if he was here right now, probably his lack of a warm sweater, too. So Miles wasn’t really sure where to stand on that. 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t have seen this coming. A Christmas card for Spider-Man? From a citizen that he worked hard to protect? Whose name was Jefferson Davis? There was a reason he needed to let all this out of his system.

Miles didn’t laugh this time, but sighed. Not in resignation, but something within the shadow of satisfaction. He’d _thought_ it was just about time to start seeing some return on investment. 

Not that the thousands of lives he’d saved weren’t a gift enough, it was just…

A Christmas card. From his dad. To his alter-ego. Spider-Man.

Ridiculous.


	3. Kids are ALWAYS like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i Know it’s however many days after christmas but i’m still going to finish this, even if it's in january 2019, Goddammit

It was around half an hour after Jefferson had asked Miles for help on the Christmas card, and the glaring blank space occupying its bottom left hand corner was no less a parasite on the card’s quality than it had been ever since he started. Despite multiple re-workings of the layout, the font, the sizes and even the background colour, that blank space haunted him even when he saved what (little to no) work he’d done and closed the file. He hadn’t asked Miles for help a second time. He had seemed pretty eager to leave.

He closed his laptop with a sigh, realising that whether it was from the department or from his own heart and mind, home was not for work. Especially after the sun had gone down. He looked from his spot on the couch through the kitchen and out the window; the last rays of the sun still swayed in the sky, painting the city with one last swirl of oranges and pinks. 

Miles’s door had been closed for quite a while; Jefferson figured that’d be enough alone time. He got up from the couch to knock on his son’s door.

“Miles? You got any plans for dinner?”

He was half joking, half serious. Miles always insisted he’d much rather spend time with his parents than go out with his friends. (It used to be “I’ll see them tomorrow!” Now it was “I never see you guys!”) But it was Jefferson’s own way of asking his son what he wanted to eat. He was sure that Miles was at some point slightly irritated by it, as all kids are to anything their parents say in the weird grey area between earnestness and jest, but it seemed like he’d gotten used to it now. 

“Miles?”

He waited a few more seconds. He counted seven ticks of the clock before he opened the door.

There was a part of him that already knew what he was going to see — he didn’t entertain that part of him that often, lest he fall into the spiralling pit of paranoia. That, and, that part usually wasn’t ever right. But when he saw the empty bed, empty desk chair and empty room, that part of him was screaming at the rest of him, yelling “I told you so!”

He swallowed. He walked away from the room, and took out his phone. 

Jefferson supposed this had happened before. Maybe about a year ago, sometime around Aaron’s passing. Miles never told him what had happened, why he had skipped school or why he’d severed all contact for two whole days. Or had it been three? He couldn’t remember — he didn’t want to think about it right now. That wasn’t happening again. He cleared his throat and called Miles’s contact.

After what seemed like an uncomfortably long time for a phone to ring (since when did thirty seconds take ten minutes to pass?) the call went straight to voicemail. Jefferson started pacing. 

Right when his thumb was about to hit the call button for Miles again, his phone vibrated and a chime went off. 

It was a text from Miles: _what’s up?_

There was some form of relief in Jefferson when he read that. There was also some form of protection and frustration rising. 

_Where are you? Why aren’t you at home?_

He wouldn't say it took Miles ages to reply, but it kind of did — it was three minutes before his phone went off again.

 

_you told me i could go out??_

 

_No…_

_I didn’t._

 

_i walked right up to you and said ‘can i go out’_

_you said yes_

_you were on your laptop_

 

_Come home, Miles._

_Right now, please._

 

Jefferson put his phone down without waiting for a reply. It didn’t really matter if Miles had actually asked him or not — and if he hadn’t, whether or not he just lied. Having this conversation over text was not enough, or even acceptable. 

Miles was a good kid, and Jefferson knew this. Jefferson also knew that any and every kid, regardless of how you raised them, would eventually get it in their head that they somehow knew better than their parents.

 

* * *

 

Miles cringed as he hit send on every single one of his texts. He should have _known_ this was going to happen. Saying he was going to go out Spider-Manning for ‘just ten minutes’ was like setting an alarm while knowing he would immediately turn it off in the morning. He wouldn’t even entertain the notion of pressing the snooze button before going back to sleep. 

He put his phone away and started on the route back to his home. His dad was mad, and probably going to kill him, if those periods were any indication. Or, hopefully, he was just very particular about grammar. He hoped it was the latter. 

Swinging through New York was not as liberating all of a sudden. Miles had let his energy out, had been away from home maybe just a few minutes too long, and now he had to go back again. He was still Spider-Man, but it sucked just a little, now. 

The wind seemed to push him back as he swung, and if it didn’t feel like moving through jelly it certainly felt like trying to survive running head-on against the propulsion of an airplane jet. There was no more spark in his muscles that compelled him to keep going, and the night sky was so black it looked like it had just shut off. Good night, New York, it’s all done now. Sorry, Spider-Man, you gotta go home.

He looked on the bright side, though. Even if his dad killed Miles tonight, he’d still be getting a lovely Christmas card from him as Spider-Man.

That was enough to put him in a weird mix between excruciating dread and a pretty good mood.

He landed on top of his building and climbed down to his window, making sure he was not seen. He was upside down as he peered into his room, about to reach to open the window, when a light shined in his eyes. He blinked, adjusting his eyes in time to see that while he’d been gone, his bedroom door had been opened, wide enough that Miles could now see through the doorframe and into the living room, where his dad was pacing.

_Crap!_

He shot back up from the window. Had he seen him? Miles calmed his racing heart with a few long breaths, and reoriented himself.

Okay. Okay. He’d circle back around the building and walk through the front door. 

He was halfway down the wall when he almost face palmed. Of course he should be going through the front door. He specifically told his dad he wasn’t in the house anymore. He wondered how many more times his dumb mistakes would be saved by even dumber luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned for some Family™ Discussions™ in the next chapter! >:)  
> (i promise he'll get the card soon!)


	4. so who talks first? you talk first? i talk first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did research on the movie ‘elf’ for this chapter. that’s all you have to know.

If ever there was an approximation of a shy and sheepish grin, Miles managed to wear it as his dad opened the door. His dad sighed, looked his son up and down, and shrugged.

“What do you want for dinner?”

Miles kept grinning (or grimacing? Preparing for his death?) as they walked inside, keeping a good two metres behind his dad. “Uh…What time’s Mum gonna be home?”

His dad looked at him from where he’d opened the fridge. “Oh, she said she was gonna be late. So, dinner?”

Probably the most terrifying thing was that Miles couldn’t tell whether or not his dad was mad at him. Everything seemed…fine. But Miles couldn’t shake the suspicion that there was something lurking underneath this normality — and it put him off, like someone had come into his home and shifted everything slightly to the left. Was his dad going to ground him? Did he know that he was Spider-Man? Was he going to ground Spider-Man? Why did his mum have to stay late at the hospital? Sure, there were people in need, but Miles was pretty sure he was going to die at least within the next hour.

“Miles?”

“Hm?” 

“Dinner?”

“Oh.” Right. Dinner. Whether his dad knew or not, it seemed like he was at least trying to act like nothing happened. So maybe he should, too. “We still have Thai leftovers, right?”

His dad nodded, not saying a word.

So Miles sat there, across the table from his dad, eating nothing but reheated egg fried rice straight from the container. His dad raised an eyebrow at the choice, but left no comment on it. 

The evening had started out pretty well. Which wasn’t to say that it had now turned out bad, just kind of. Different. To how Miles was expecting. It all kind of came out of left field, which Miles supposed was the best way to describe it, since he certainly didn’t wake up with the feeling that anything would go the way that it actually did. He was still holding out hope for those future-predicting spidey powers. Which the spider sense didn’t count as, Miles decided, since whenever it went off it still left him with a second-long guessing game before he could either duck or get hit. He scooped through the rice to find a chunk of oddly coloured egg and forced himself to not think too much about it as he ate it. 

“So, how’s school?”

Miles sighed. 

His dad stopped eating to look at him. Miles cringed.

“I mean— uh, it’s good?” There was still food in his mouth. Miles hadn’t really meant anything by his delayed response, it was just that school was hardly the last thing on his mind, and it was kind of a drag to be reminded of it. That, and, the question was just exhaustingly cliche. He was already on thin ice right now, and another wrong move could just be the nail in the coffin. He swallowed. “Not much has been happening.”

His dad nodded. “You doing all your homework?”

“Yeah.”

“All your friends are nice?”

“Mm-hm.”

His dad didn’t seem to be asking anymore questions, so Miles went back to eating. He shovelled more than what was probably necessary into his mouth, having the idea somewhere in the back of his mind that if he was eating, he couldn’t talk, and so his dad couldn’t ask him anything else. 

His dad didn’t seem to notice.

“So, what process does your school actually go through to let you leave every weekend? Or before curfew?” Miles bit back another sigh and held in an eye roll. “Who do you run it by? Do you have to sign out and sign back in? Is there a permission slip invol—”

“Dad!” He shouldn’t have taken in those mouthfuls of rice. He was still chewing. 

His dad already knew the answers to all these questions, unless he had really forgotten the orientation day and the information night and the brochures upon brochures upon brochures that Visions Academy had provided the year before. He was just trying to prove a point to Miles. And Miles kind of hated it.

There was a silence between them, now, and it was the same one that had been persisting ever since Miles came back home. Every time either of them had spoken up it’d felt like an intrusion on the otherwise stillness of the night — which was weird, since cars outside still zoomed by, neighbours were still crass, loud and laughing, and even the occasional helicopter would whizz overhead. New York was still very much alive, it just seemed like Miles’s dining room table hadn’t gotten the message. 

A minute or two ticked by as Miles made progress with his food, chipping it down bite by bite. It really felt like he was in an echo chamber, or a cave of some kind: the noises of the city, present as they were, seemed a lifetime away, while the dinner he was sharing with his father was almost magnified. He was aware of every little detail, of every little movement either of them made, and he could feel his dad’s eyes on him, too, even as he kept to himself and to his own meal on the other side of the table. Neither of them were saying anything.

Miles kept eating. This _could’ve_ been a good day. His dad was giving a card to Spider-Man for Christmas, and trusted Miles and his opinion enough to let him help with it. And then he had to press him for being out, and his mum wasn’t home yet to eat dinner with them, and now it’d been minutes and no one had said anything after Miles had snapped at his dad with his mouth full. He swallowed what was left in his mouth and sighed. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Miles looked down at his food, not saying a word. 

If his dad’s agenda was making Miles as annoyed with him as he seemed to be with Miles, then it was working. He bounced his leg underneath the table, needing some kind of outlet for the irritation building up inside of him other than turning this relatively awkward dinner into one that he’d regret.

Miles knew he was in the wrong. He had snuck out without telling his dad. It was just that he couldn’t exactly tell him that he was out being Spider-Man. It wasn’t even like he’d been doing anything — he wasn’t stopping a crime or helping an old lady cross the street. There were no cats in trees or balaclava’d bank robbers or any other cliches that could have warranted him putting on the suit. He supposed it made sense that going out to be Spider-Man just for fun had come back to him and gotten him in trouble. 

But now neither of them were saying anything, and Miles was getting closer to finishing his dinner, and he didn’t really know what to do. Or say. He kinda wished his mum would just walk through the door right about now. 

“Did you really ask me if you could go out?”

Miles paused. His dad had probably seen that he was just a few spoonfuls away from finishing and wanted to get this conversation in before Miles left to his room again. He cleared his throat and started playing with his food.

Miles wasn’t really sure what to say, except for the fact that the back of his mind (and if he was being honest, the front of his mind, too) was yelling at him, prodding him in the sides and beating him over the head with the simple suggestion that he should just tell the truth. And looking at his dad, there was no sign of the Officer Davis that he would encounter as Spider-Man. This was the man that had raised him, who he’d known all his life. It wasn’t hard to give in to the nagging thought in his mind. 

“I snuck out through the window.” While he didn’t technically answer the question, he figured that giving a simple ‘no’ would’ve led to his dad drawing out the answer anyway, and he may or may not have wanted this to end as quickly as possible. 

His dad spoke between bites. “I knew you didn’t ask. I thought I was going crazy.” Miles kept eating. “Why did you sneak out?”

Miles swallowed. “I…needed some air.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me?”

_I can’t really tell you._ “I don’t know.”

“I would’ve let you. Or, we could’ve gone out together.”

Miles put the last few bites into his mouth. “That would’ve…been nice, actually,” he mumbled.

“What’s that?”

He swallowed the last of his meal and cleared his throat, offering up what he hoped was a smile and not a(nother) grimace. “Next time? Maybe?”

“Next time you sneak out?”

Miles blinked. He should’ve expected his dad to be so quick on the draw. He chuckled. “I’m sorry, Dad.” He didn’t ask what for this time, letting Miles breath out a sigh of relief that surely smelt like day-old Thai leftovers. He watched as his dad finished up what was left of his meal and prepare to get up, smiling at him. “I love you,” he added, if not for good measure. 

“I love you, too. Now, are you done with that, or are you going to eat the plastic, too?” His dad was standing up now, holding his plate in one hand and holding out the other one for the container.

“Oh. No.” He gave it to his dad and got up from the table. “Thanks.”

“Thank _you_.”

Miles shifted away from the table to hover in the doorway to the living room, heading towards his bedroom. 

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

His dad was at the sink, having already thrown away the empty food container and had begun scrubbing down his plate. The cutlery had been thrown at the bottom of the sink, not discarded, but to be dealt with at another time. 

Miles gestured in the opposite direction to his dad. “I’m gonna— I’ll just be in my room.”

His dad looked over his shoulder. “Oh, no, you won’t. After I’m done with the dishes we’re watching a movie together.”

Miles smiled to himself as his dad went back to the one plate that apparently counted as ‘the dishes’ (notice the plural). “Oh, really?” Miles looked at the TV in the living room which was currently off. He’d have to be the one to turn it on and set up the movie. “Okay. Which movie?”

“What movie do you wanna watch?”

“Last week Ganke said that it was a crime that I never watched _Elf_ before.”

_“Elf_ it is then.” His dad had finished washing and drying the plate and was wiping his hands now. They both walked into the living room. “Who was the main guy in that, again?”

“Um, I don’t know…Jim Carrey, I think?”

His dad nodded, and Miles got the sense that he hadn’t really cared about the answer. They both sat down on the couch as Miles grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, opening Netflix and hoping that _Elf_ was on it. After typing in the letter ‘e,’ he paused. 

“Dad?” He didn’t respond. “I’m sorry for sneaking out today. I won’t do it again. And I lied earlier, school is… _okay,_ but exams are coming up, and I wouldn’t normally be stressing out, but _everyone’s_ stressing out, so that is kinda stressing me out, but—”

“Miles, whoah, hey!” His dad chuckled as he interrupted him, and Miles let out a little laugh of his own. “It’s okay. I know you’re sorry; you’re a good kid. And, you do know I’m always here to talk about that stuff, right?”

Miles looked down. “Yeah, I know.”

This topic was new territory. They never really used to talk about school, or exams, or stress, or all of that before, at least not in a way that felt this deliberate. How much had his life actually changed with the new school? Had he really started just dealing with everything on his own?

Miles picked up the remote again. “Thanks, Dad. It’s good spending time with you.”

“You’re welcome.” He patted Miles on the back. “I like spending time with you, too.”

Miles put the movie on, glad that he could end the night in a better mood than he had been during dinner. 

He fell asleep before the movie ended, not hearing when his mother came home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly wanted to include rio much more in this chapter but i think everything i wanted her to say had already been said by miles and jefferson. also i did NOT know that this chapter would be as long as it turned out to be while i was planning it. but oh well.   
> thanks for reading!


	5. a study in disguising familiarity (OR: what not to do when hanging off of a speeding car)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so so so sorry for how long this chapter took to come out, but in my defence, it is quite a doozy. and my longest chapter yet.  
> i’m excited for you guys to read this, so thank you for sticking with me while i took the time to write it! enjoy!

It was the day before Christmas Eve and Miles already knew what he was getting. 

School had finally let out, and unfortunately for his parents, Miles had one of the keenest minds that Visions Academy had to offer. He’d never brag, but after not even two hours of being home he’d expertly deduced that under the Christmas tree that year would be a brand-spanking-new digital drawing tablet (a very generous but also very convenient departure from more traditional artistic resources/endeavours which could lead to stickers being thrown up all over town) and a few new volumes of comics that Miles couldn’t see very well in the lighting of the back of the laundry cabinet. His parents were getting better at hiding his gifts, Miles would give them that. 

It wouldn’t be hard to fake surprise or excitement on Christmas day while knowing his presents in advance. In fact, he wouldn’t be faking at all. Miles could have found out what he was getting six months prior and he would still light up on Christmas morning.

He swung from building to building, his mind wandering from the holiday to the city and back again. There wasn’t any particular reason he was out that afternoon — it wasn’t like there were even any statistics showing that criminals were just biding their time so they could go absolutely hog wild on goddamn December twenty third — if anything, despite its closeness to the holidays, it could still pass as just any other day. But there was a sort of low-level thrum in the back of his mind, like a phone was incessantly ringing somewhere he couldn’t quite place, that assured him he wasn’t out for just no reason. 

And then that thrumming started screaming, and seconds later the horrible screech of tires sounded off to his left. 

There wasn’t much way to describe how Miles reacted, unless it was somehow possible to visualise one stumbling in mid-air. He would admit it wasn’t the most graceful of his dismounts, but it wasn’t the easiest thing to make a right-angled turn in the middle of a swing. 

He landed on the side of a building, clinging to the wall a little lower than where he would’ve anticipated the swing to land him, and looked around for the source of the screeching tires. 

A little ways down the street, there were pedestrians shouting and cars blaring their horns, which all would’ve been well and good if not for the added police sirens following a car that was trying to drive halfway on the sidewalk to overtake the traffic. Miles sprung off the building, zipping down there as fast as he could.

The car — an old one, very well used and brown; Miles couldn’t tell what model — was speeding down the street without care as to what was in front of it. Most people were jumping out of its way, but for those who weren’t able to or whose fear froze them in place, Miles thwipped out a line of web and quickly yanked them out of harm’s way. After he made sure several bystanders weren’t about to be hit, it seemed like the guy sitting in the passenger seat had noticed him and was shouting at the driver. The car had made it to an intersection and swerved into a right turn, with two police cars in hot pursuit. 

The traffic had thinned on the street, and the car was now practically flying down the road. Even from his position above it, Miles could tell that the car didn’t agree with the speed, especially as it weaved in and out of the other few vehicles among it. More beeping, and more sirens. 

Miles swung frantically to keep up with the car, not entirely looking where his webs were landing and trusting his spider sense to keep him in the air. He continuously jerked forward as he rapidly gained on them, unlike the police cars who were beginning to lag behind. They turned down another street, and Miles cursed.

As the police continued to follow the car down the streets, Miles launched himself to the top of a building, and hoped to God that he was as good as predicting New York traffic and their criminals as he thought he was.

He sprinted across the rooftops, flinging himself forward with lines of web when he could, leaping across alleyways and turning with the streets. He had made it to a stout little building, a bit out of the way and hidden by others towering over it, stumbling a little as he came to its edge. To his right he saw it: the little, brown, well-used car still speeding down the road. He could hear the police sirens trailing it, but they were nowhere in sight. 

He’d have to get this just right. He looked to the car, how fast it was going and how far away it was, then back at the building and its roof, and its distance from the ground. He backed up diagonally, inching closer to the neighbouring building, and ran. 

With a leap and a definitely necessary side flip, he landed on the hood of the car. He had a small split second moment of relief — _thank_ _God_ he managed it, even though he had meant to land on his feet, and not completely facedown on the windscreen, like he’d been cartoonishly run over. 

When he heard the driver and passenger shout in surprise, he pushed down the slight sting in his everything and peeled his face off the window.

“Hey, guys! Going for a— whoah!”

Before he could finish any sort of quipping, the driver had swerved the car, almost enough to count as a turn right in the middle of the road. The street wasn’t the driest, with the snow coming down, and the front of the car edged dangerously close to a row of buildings that were passing by far too rapidly for Miles’ tastes. His grip loosened for a second, and his heart leaped in his chest. They swerved back in to the middle of the road, and Miles forced himself to control his breathing. He adjusted in his stance to take on more of a crouch, still sticking to the windscreen with his right hand. 

The guy sitting in the passenger seat had apparently had enough of the spider sticking to his windscreen and rolled down the window to lean out of it with a gun in his hand. 

Miles flinched. “Nope!” He said quickly, flinging a web to grab the gun out of his hands. He was about to throw it away, but thought better of it and stuck it to the roof of the car. Better than chucking a loaded gun out into the city. 

He had to think of how to stop these guys, and quick. He wasn’t even sure what they were guilty of, but having two police cars on your tail, doing your damnedest to obliterate any standing traffic laws and brandishing a loaded gun was reason enough for Miles to try and detain them. He looked over his shoulder, surveying his surroundings. There were still a few cars that had either not heard of the incoming police chase or did not care enough to detour from their route. Nice to know that there was still some swerving Miles could look forward to. The road was still icy, the buildings still dominated the sides of the street, and the guys in the car were probably not in possession of just the one gun. Miles made his way to the driver’s side window and tapped on it.

Ridiculously enough, he rolled it down. Miles thought he might just be one of the stupidest criminals he’d have to fight, but the the driver made a grab at him.

“Whoah, there, buddy!” He dodged backwards and webbed the driver’s hands to the steering wheel in one motion. They swung right with the impact. “You do know you’re supposed to keep your hands on the wheel at all times, right?” 

It was risky, and Miles was definitely paying for it as he held on for dear life on the now constantly veering and lurching vehicle. The driver began to turn and tug at his hands and the wheels of the car followed; Miles wasn’t even sure they were still going in the right direction.

The passenger swore and shouted and tried his best to steer the car while the driver was still pushing and pulling every which way to get his hands free. Miles, in what he hoped wasn’t the stupidest (and last) move of his life, webbed the passenger’s hands to the wheel, too. 

They screamed and jeered at Miles, but he tuned them out. The driver apparently had no intent on easing up on the accelerator, so Miles was now forced to get all of them out of this situation. 

He shot a web at the wheel underneath him, but it was quickly spun out. He fired two more and he was given the same result. He looked up, judging where the car was going — the road was still dotted with cars and other vehicles. Miles cursed. He couldn’t afford a crash. 

Above him, a streetlight turned on. 

All at once, the snow-painted street lit up with an orange tinge, and Miles knew what he could do.

He edged his way to the roof of the car, careful not to touch the gun he’d stuck on it, not sure if it was cocked or not. He bit his lip. He could make a net between two opposite streetlights and effectively catch the car in its tracks, but he’d have to be incredibly quick about it. Like, speed of light quick. The streetlights were zooming past at such a rate that even if he begun webbing up the side of one to prepare a net, the car would already be gone in seconds. That, and, the street was way too wide for him to even consider accurately webbing up a streetlight on the opposite side. And he would be blocking the way for the whole road. Okay, so maybe not.

He’d have to use just the one streetlight and hope that he was able to time it properly. But hey, if he was able to jump on this speeding death machine from a building, he could probably hit a streetlight with some web, right?

Right?

He shot a web onto the hood and one on the boot, covering each end completely with the stuff. He then shot a line from both and connected them in the middle over the roof, in a triangle formation. With shaking legs, he stood up. He held on to the connecting point of the two webs and shot one down between his feet and connected it as well, just to be safe. He now had three points of contact for his webs, all converging in his hands. 

He was going to hang the car from a streetlight. He was probably going insane. 

The streetlights still zoomed overhead and the car was still swerving underfoot. He’d have to shoot a line of web to a streetlight and connect it to the webbed up car, all in about a second if he didn’t want to rip his arms off or let the car go. 

Miles steadied himself. He was scared witless, but he didn’t know what else to do. 

He aimed and fired a line of web at a streetlight. The pole of it hanging over the street was only a few inches thick, and unsurprisingly, he missed. 

“Crap,” he whispered. 

The end of the street was nearing and Miles knew they would take any chance to get the police off their tail. He took a deep breath in and steadied himself again. He _had_ to get this. 

He counted the lights as they went past. One, two, three, four. They were consistent, and Miles nodded his head as he counted each one off. One, two, three, four. Before long, he recognised a rhythm. 

He could do this. One. Two. Three. Four. They were getting closer to the end of the road, but he knew the beat to this by now. One. Two. Three. 

_Four_. 

He fired a web exactly on time, already turning to grab the end of it and connect it to his make-shift triangle of webs he’d attached to the car. He didn’t see the web hit the streetlight, but felt the impact of it, and half a second later he’d already stretched the end to meet the other webs. 

The car flung upwards with Miles in tow, and he quickly reinforced where the web hung from the streetlight and all its connecting points on the car. He landed on top of the streetlight, and for a few seconds he stayed perched there, his huffing breath dancing in the winter afternoon air, the wheels on the car still turning left and right as the driver continued to swerve with no road beneath him.

From where he was crouching on top of the light, he looked down to survey his work. The car was slowly swinging around, but it was holding. It wasn’t coming down anytime soon. 

Not bad. Not bad at all. 

The police were quick to show up, parking underneath the hanging car. A young officer, one Miles hadn’t met or even seen before, got out of the first car to look up at what he’d done. She shook her head and spoke into the radio on her uniform. 

Miles looked over to the other police car when he saw an officer getting out, surprised to see that it was none other than the great Officer Davis. He closed the car door, saw how the streetlight had been lovingly decorated, and looked up to make immediate eye contact with Spider-Man. Miles could practically hear the ‘Of _course_ ’ he whispered underneath his breath. 

His dad shifted in his stance as if to say ‘Get down here immediately, young man,’ and without hesitation Miles flipped to the ground to land in front of him. 

“You realise this is just a mess of webs we now have to clean up, right?” His dad said. 

“You’re welcome, sir,” Miles returned with a nod. He’d lowered his voice so there was no way he could tell who he was. 

His dad shook his head as he looked up to where the car was still hanging. Another officer had gotten out from the first car, and the two underneath the streetlight were now brainstorming how to get the car down. 

“How’d you even get to them before us?” His dad asked, bringing Miles’s attention away from the car that was still slowly turning. 

“I have access to a few roads you don’t, Officer,” he said, pointing to the tops of the buildings. 

“Hm,” his dad nodded. “Well, thank you, Spider-Man.”

Miles couldn’t help the pride brimming in his chest and the smile taking over his face. “It’s no problem, sir. Oh, also, you should know — there’s a loaded gun stuck to the top of that car.”

“Oh. That is good to know.”

“Yeah.” 

Miles was still reeling from being on top of the speeding car, but being in the presence of his dad was enough to calm him down. He sighed, his mind wandering back to the holiday — he couldn’t wait to be back at home with his parents, preparing for Christmas and staying with them over the break. He was anxious to be with them, which was weird, because he already _was_ with his dad right now. 

They stood in silence for a few seconds, the officers behind them still trying to figure out what to do with the car. Miles was about to tell them that the webs would dissolve in a couple of hours, or try and ask why those guys were running in the first place, but his dad spoke up first. 

“Hold on, could you wait for just a second?” He asked, and he was already at the door of his car before Miles could even reply. 

After rummaging around in his car for a bit, he came back with a package wrapped in solid red paper. 

“Um—” Miles started. 

“This is for you,” he said, very matter-of-factly, and all but pushed it into Miles’s hands. 

Miles didn’t know what to do. He knew what this was. 

At least, he thought he did. The package was about the size of a standard sheet of paper, except much more thick. Just from feeling it, Mile could tell it was probably a folder with plastic sleeves, most likely all filled up. He suddenly got very scared about how he was supposed to react.

“Can I open it?” He was already fiddling with some of the loose wrapping.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do with presents, isn’t it?”

Miles nodded, looking down at the present. The _present_. He’d thought his dad was just getting him a card, but a _present?_

He was weirdly nervous when opening it. As he ripped through it, he found he was right — it was a folder, with lines running across it diagonally for texture, a shiny pitch black colour with no labels on it, and it was completely full. His dad took the wrapping from him when he didn’t know what to do with it. 

Slowly, he opened the cover. He knew what was going to be on the first page, but it still took him aback when he saw it.

The card his dad had wanted him to help with, blown up to full size, sat in the first sleeve. It was wishing Spider-Man a merry Christmas and thanking him for all the work he’d done in the past year. It had a little graphic of his mask as the main feature, and that pesky little blank space had finally been filled, reading ‘with love from New York!’.

“Oh, my god,” Miles breathed. 

“I wasn’t sure if I would see you so close to Christmas again, so I figured I’d give it to you now,” his dad explained.

Miles nodded. “You did this?”

His dad nodded back. “With a little help.” He gestured for Miles to keep looking through the folder. 

So he did. The first spread had two pictures; both selfies. The first was one Miles had taken with a fan — it would’ve been a few months ago, Miles remembered — his arm around their shoulder as they took the picture, with his other hand up in a peace sign. Their grinning mouth was open in a silent cheer. The second one Miles couldn’t remember, and he didn’t know when it was from. The photographer was in the foreground, pointing to Spider-Man in the background as he swung from the skyscrapers through New York. The look on their face was one of excitement and shock, like they were only just starting to realise the shot they’d grabbed. 

Miles kept turning through the pages. There were more selfies and photos, some he’d recognised from being a part of them or from seeing them on various social media accounts. There was a good amount of fan art, too. Some people drew him soaring over the city, there were drawings of him winning fights, he was drawn having fun, sitting on top of rooftops, helping people, hanging with the artist of the drawing, in just some doodles, all with spectacular colours and incredible angles and weight and movement, all levels and styles of artistry coming together to draw Spider-Man. The love for him and the city he belonged to made no hesitation in leaping off the page.

It was almost too much. Almost overwhelming, in the sense that he was so truly happy that he wouldn’t be surprised if he started weeping. He couldn’t restrain himself from flipping through page after page, never wanting to stop looking at all the faces and all the art and all the hard work and effort that was put into this ridiculous, incredible present. And the fact that he’d just been given it by his dad? The only reason he hadn’t enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug yet was because no force on Earth could stop him from continuing to look through this present. It was everything he could do to stop himself from immediately tracking everybody who contributed to this down and giving a heartfelt ‘thank you’ in person.

_“Oh, my god,”_ Miles repeated. “This is insane. This is…amazing.” He looked up to his dad. “I love it. I love it so much, Da—” His eyes widened as he caught himself, making sure to lower his voice. “D…uh, D—Davis.” He cleared his throat and looked down at the folder again. It was open to a photo from Picaboo where the caption read ‘spotted,’ taken from what must’ve been someone’s apartment zoomed onto him one night where he was hanging upside down from an awning and eating pizza. The other was split into two: the top half being a photo of him right after he’d finished one swing but yet to start another, the bottom half being an artist’s rendition of the photo, with added bright colours, dramatic shading and exaggerated motion. He looked back up to his dad. “Thank you. So much.”

“You’re welcome. I mean, really, we should be thanking you. You’ve being doing…a pretty good job, despite how you go about it. You’re _actually_ pretty helpful. Sometimes.”

In any other situation, Miles could have read that as a backhanded compliment, but it seemed like his dad was really being as gracious and honest as anyone possibly could. He chalked up the wording to his age and took the compliment for what it was. 

Miles shook his head, shrugged, and said simply, “It’s my job.”

“Right. But, the citizens of New York love you. It wasn’t any surprise that so many were on board with this. In fact, I’m surprised something like this took so long; I would’ve thought someone would have put something together like this a long time ago.”

Miles kept flipping through, boundless love flowing through from his heart at every new page. “So, _you_ were the one who put this together?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

_Well, first of all, organising such a community-based project like this would have taken_ some _level of online competency._ “Well…you’re always so quick to criticise me. You never let me go without saying what I’m doing is dangerous, or that I should leave it to the police. So you _don’t_ hate my guts?” Miles chuckled. 

“I—”

A loud bang reverberated behind Miles and the officers under the car yelped. He shot around to see that the hood of the car had been forced open, causing the whole vehicle to slant forward. The webbing was still holding on, but the car was threatening to break apart from the hood.

“I stand by what I said,” his dad was saying. “But you’re young. And I do respect you.”

Miles turned around to his dad. “Should I, like, deal with that?” He asked frantically.

“Oh.” He looked over to where the officers were trying to steady the hanging car. Miles could hear the guys inside shouting. “No. I don’t think you should.”

Miles didn’t know what to say. 

“Merry Christmas, Spider-Man. From all of us.”

Miles looked down at the folder one last time before closing it and holding it to his chest. “You too. I…” He looked back at the car again then back at his dad. “Thank you. I love you.”

He was already swinging away before his dad could reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a long chapter to make up for the long wait!! and holy cow!! finally got there!! :O  
> (there's still more to come >:3c)


	6. Spider-Man: Menace to Society, Stealer of Hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I LOVE ALL OF YOU!!!! i really wanted to be able to reply to all your comments (and i love each and every one of them! thank you all so much!!) but alas there were A Lot and i kinda had to compromise between writing this chapter and just giving the same reply over and over ;w; so i’m really sorry about not replying but i still loved all of them <3 thank you for commenting and pls enjoy!!

“What’s the difference between the old Spider-Man and the new one?”

It felt like a set-up to a joke. One that could possibly be in poor taste, sure, but Jefferson answered accordingly nonetheless.

“I don’t know, what is the difference?”

“No, I’m _asking_ you. What is the difference?”

Jefferson put down his book and turned to where Rio sat in their bed beside him. He didn’t need to say anything for her to know that he was asking her to elaborate. 

“You hated the old Spider-Man. Peter Parker.”

“I didn’t _hate_ him.”

Rio raised an eyebrow.

Jefferson sighed. “Well, I didn’t… _like_ him.”

“You were right on the line of hate.”

“I…” Jefferson sighed, closing his book and putting on his nightstand. 

“You spent _hours_ on that gift for Spider-Man. If I went back in time to two years ago, or even one year ago, and told you that you were gonna do that, you wouldn’t believe me. What happened to Spider-Man being a menace?”

“I— well, I never called him a menace. I never said that. That’s the words of an insane person.”

Rio didn’t say anything, and Jefferson knew she was silently calling him out on evading the point. 

“Look, he…he’s young,” he said eventually. “It’s important for him to know that there’s people out there who care about him. He needs to know he’s not alone, you know? That he’s loved.”

“Huh,” Rio nodded. For a few seconds, she didn’t say anything, but then she started laughing. “Who are you and what have you done with the man I married?”

Jefferson couldn’t help but smile, too, before settling further into bed and reaching over to turn off his lamp. “Love you, honey. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, mi amor.”

Eventually Rio settled into bed as well, and their bedroom was filled with darkness. But Jefferson didn’t sleep for a long while, even after he heard his wife’s slow steady breathing, just edging on the border of snoring. 

Jefferson sighed, rolling onto his back as he stared up at the ceiling. Rio had a point. He definitely had a change of heart when it came to this new Spider-Man. The problem was — and he couldn’t explain it to his wife, mostly due to the fact that even he didn’t fully comprehend it — he didn’t even know why. Yes, there was a small part of him that didn’t mind the new Spider-Man. Even cared for him, maybe. Cared enough to put slightly more effort than he’d anticipated into a gift for him. But it wasn’t like it was a big deal. 

The kid was young, and definitely shouldn’t be doing this vigilante gig. Not just for the usual reasons why Jefferson opposed vigilantism, but on top of all the unlawfulness it was just plain dangerous — he saw the villains that Spider-Man had to fight on a near daily basis; the thought of a kid around the age of his son going up against them just made him sick to his stomach. And along with his vigilante image, it wasn’t like the kid was a saint, either. He was actually pretty annoying at times, though Jefferson figured that the so-called Spider-Man ‘wit’ just came with the title, if how Peter Parker had handled it was any indication. It was enough that he was taking the law into his own hands and purposefully putting himself in danger, but he didn’t have to be a smart-ass about it.

But Jefferson kept coming back to that one point: Spider-Man was young. He couldn’t have been much older than Miles, and if he could barely stop his own son from doing want he wanted most of the time, he didn’t see much point in trying to stop the kid who was able to take down Wilson Fisk single-handedly. He’d learned from experience that it was probably better to appreciate what good a kid does than to try and hold them back.

And the good that Spider-Man did was…really good. Like, good enough that Jefferson had admitted it out loud at least twice, even despite him being a vigilante. And many, _many_ people thought the same way, too, if the response to his gift idea and the countless submissions and community appraisal he’d received had to show for anything (and luckily enough that they had come pouring in as well, since Jefferson had almost backed out of it about a hundred times). That was the thing, too — Rio had assumed that Jefferson had put his utmost effort into this gift, but really, the love for Spider-Man was all there already. The only thing he had done was put it into the hero’s hands. 

Spider-Man deserved it, Jefferson decided. He couldn’t speak on whether or not Peter Parker had, though he supposed that seeing his young face on the news that night had maybe kickstarted this whole renewal on his perception of Spider-Man — maybe New York’s perception, too. But if the kid wasn’t going to stop fighting villains all day, the best Jefferson could do was at least give him something in return. 

He might have to take a few things up with his parents, though. Did they even know he was swinging around New York every other day?

 

* * *

Christmas came and went and Jefferson wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Miles as happy on a holiday as he had been that year. He honestly couldn’t tell if Miles had gone searching for his gifts beforehand, because the light in his eyes on Christmas morning was so bright and genuine that Jefferson had a hard time believing he could have possibly known what his gifts were before he opened them. Unless he was getting better at acting.

Though even if Miles had known about his gifts beforehand, Jefferson was quickly proven wrong in any doubts he had in Miles’ appreciation for them, because it had been three days since Christmas and the only time Jefferson had seen his son not working over his brand-spanking-new digital drawing tablet was to sleep, and just _barely_ to eat. The only reason Miles had eaten with them at all over the past few days was because he didn’t want to get any food or drinks near the new technology. Even with him locked away in his room for ninety per cent of the time, Jefferson could tell that there was this kind of energy around Miles now. He’d been happy, not just on Christmas, but the whole time since he’d been home, about as bright and jubilant as if he was trying to cram as much joy into this short holiday as possible. Jefferson didn’t question it, glad that his son was so upbeat, and was hoping it would last as long as it could.

“Miles?” Jefferson knocked on his door, not sure if his son would hear it. He always had his headphones turned up just a little too loud for Jefferson’s liking. “Are you even in there?”

He opened the door as he joked, though he was still reminded of being faced with an abandoned and silent room just a few weeks ago. Logic said that Miles wouldn’t do it again, and of course he knew he wouldn’t, and he trusted his son, but still as he opened the door, the thought continued to grapple his mind and he braced for the sight of an empty, Miles-free scene.

He opened the door the full way, and…

“Huh?” Miles said, taking off his headphones. Jefferson could still hear a song he didn’t recognise blasting through the small speakers. 

Jefferson exhaled. It felt good to be proven wrong. His eyes found the famed drawing tablet, still on and presenting a half-finished piece. “Whatcha drawing?”

Miles seemed to scramble to turn the tablet off as Jefferson made his way over to his side. He’d caught a glimpse of some smiling faces, and there was something a little familiar about them that tickled the back of his mind. But they were stylised, and were splashed in bright colours, and maybe if he’d lingered on them for a second longer something might have clicked.

“Oh, uh—! Nothing,” Miles assured. “Just some…studies.” He began to mumble a bit. “Just some people…I’ve seen around. In the street.” He clicked his tongue. “At school.”

“Oh.” Jefferson nodded. Miles usually didn’t give much information about what he was drawing, at least, not all at once, and Jefferson didn’t really understand why he didn’t want him to see it. “Cool.” He looked at the now black screen of the tablet, about to tell Miles that he didn’t have to hide his art from him, before another thought occurred to him: “Did you save that?”

Miles held his gaze with Jefferson for a few seconds, not looking down at the tablet. His eyes widened by a millimetre.

“…Yes,” he said eventually. He seemed to be frozen in place. 

“Okay, well, your mother and I were thinking of going out for lunch. Did you wanna come join?”

Miles immediately lit up. “Yeah, ‘course,” he said as he took his headphones to place them on his desk, finally turning off the music. 

“Great!” Jefferson returned his son’s smile. “Could you be ready in about ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

Jefferson nodded. “I’ll leave you be, then.”

He closed the door, and in the moment before it shut completely Jefferson could have sworn he saw Miles hurriedly close and put away a black folder.

Jefferson gave pause outside of Miles’ room, staring at the door for a few seconds after he’d already closed it. His hand still hovered over the handle, but he made no move to open it again.

He’d never seen that folder his son’s room before.

 

* * *

“If I had known that traffic was gonna be like this, I would’ve just ordered take out.” Jefferson tapped his fingers along the steering wheel, staring down a delivery boy riding past on a bicycle. 

“It’s the after-Christmas sales,” Rio said, sensing the agitation rising in Jefferson. He saw Miles throw his head back against his headrest in the rearview mirror.

Jefferson sighed. They weren’t going anywhere fast any time soon. And of all the places to be stuck outside of, too — he looked to his left only to be faced with a domineering golden building, fancy and elegant in its presentation to the world. Its previous owner, Wilson Fisk, had been sitting in a jail cell for just over a year, now, but the night that Jefferson arrested him still hung in his memory like no time had passed.

He’d say that he had just been following the mess in the city back to its source, but the truth was that on that night he had felt a pull. The spontaneously generated modern art pieces sure helped in him knowing where to go, but deep down it had felt like his internal compass was directing him to whatever the hell was going down at Wilson Fisk’s tribute party to Spider-Man.

Each subsequent earthquake had only become stronger, and they’d kept growing closer and closer together so much so that Jefferson had worried they wouldn’t ever stop. Somehow he’d manoeuvred his way into the front lobby without being caught up in a flurry of colliding cars or towers jutting out at right angles, and all at once he was on the phone with his wife and neither of them had heard from Miles. The fabric of the building had been breaking down at that point, as if it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be there or not; flickering in and out of sight like a dying flashlight. Just as quickly as he’d been on the phone with Rio, the line then went dead and he was busy directing the running people out of the deteriorating building into the street that wasn’t doing much better. He never tended to put too much stock in fate or destiny, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t actively choose to stay in that building based on a gut feeling alone. 

Every way was down. There had been no where else to turn, no exit signs, not even a single direction. With each step that he’d thought was getting him closer to whatever that pull was, everything would get just a little more muddled in his mind, but still he kept pushing forward.

And he’d found it. Eventually. Or, it’d felt like no time had passed at all. The confusion that had been building seemed to disappear gradually, like it was being knocked down and down a peg consistently. Nevertheless, when he finally had stumbled upon it, whatever it was that had pulled him forward, it was…weird.

He hadn’t known how else to describe it. It was like someone was making a bubble bath of reality. It had flitted and burst and never seemed to stay one colour. Jefferson wasn’t even sure it _had_ a colour. But it was what had drawn him in, why he’d entered the building in the first place, he realised, it was the line; the link.

And suddenly he hadn’t known where he was, but there was Spider-Man.

Forever away, in the distance was Spider-Man and Wilson Fisk, battling it off one on one. He could hardly keep track of them half the time — hell, he could hardly even keep track of where _he_ was — but there they were.

And the same thing that had told him to make sure he found out what was happening in that building was then the same voice that was reminding him of that new Spider-Man he’d seen, ragged and cheaply put together and crouching over his brother’s dead body, and in that moment he knew two things: first that the Spider-Man in front of him and the other he’d seen earlier that day were one and the same, and second that this Spider-Man was not who had killed Aaron.

Wilson Fisk had never fully revealed his plans, and neither had anyone else they took in who was under his command. The department had pieced it somewhat together, though, and among the science fiction revelations, Jefferson kept what had happened to him a secret. He never mentioned that the collider had somehow affected him, too, and he didn’t really want to think about it. He’d never felt anything like it again, so he said nothing.

By the time they arrived at a place for lunch, they’d spent about forty five minutes longer in the car than they’d anticipated for or wanted to. As soon as they saw an available table, they went to claim it, not caring where in the restaurant it was placed, and finally sat down with a collective sigh.

A television was playing somewhere in the background, not loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the restaurant, but was provided with subtitles along with the news it was broadcasting.

A generic face, by news anchor standards, was reporting on something, but Jefferson was more concerned about the menus sitting on the table, giving them a quick-once over so he could _finally_ eat. 

It mustn’t have been more than a few minutes after they’d gotten their food before Rio spoke up from the other side of the table.

“Oh, that’s nice of him.”

It was an off-handed comment, one made with polite intent and most likely not in order to generate a conversation. In all likelihood, it could have easily slipped out of his wife’s mouth without a single thought, and could have, by all means, gone by without further comment. But Jefferson looked up, and saw that Rio had her eyes on the TV. He turned slightly to look at it himself.

“Again, this is Kent Holbrook from Channel 4 New York. Does this recent uptick in Spidey Christmas cheer mean we can expect more holiday celebrations in the coming months? The citizens of New York seem to hope so.”

The anchor droned on before it cut away to some on-the-street interviews. “What happened?” Jefferson asked. 

Rio’s attention was slightly divided from continuing to watch and answering her husband. “Spider-Man was wishing people happy holidays. Giving people little gifts, helping local businesses, stuff like that.”

“Helping local…?” Jefferson trailed off as he kept watching, resting his arms on either side of his plate, his fork still holding a chunk of food. “Huh.”

There was a civilian being interviewed saying something about photographs and money, their friend occasionally chiming in mentioning something or other about art. 

He turned back to the table. “Miles, what do you think of this?”

Miles’ eyes were trained on his food. Jefferson wasn’t even sure if he was paying attention. “Hmm?” Miles wordlessly asked, in the middle of chewing.

He nodded to the TV screen. Miles shrugged and kept eating.

Jefferson looked back at the TV, then to Rio, who offered him a sympathetic smile as if to say, _It doesn’t really matter._

Maybe it didn’t, but before they had finished eating, left the building and made it back home, something resembling a revelation had clicked in Jefferson’s head. 

There _was_ something different about the new Spider-Man, and Jefferson really hoped he was wrong.


	7. CONVERGENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is….formatting hell. im sorry you have to lay eyes on this

It had now been over a year since Peter Parker died. 

It seemed as though every day his grave still accumulated a bouquet of flowers, or a heartfelt letter destined to remain unread, or a passerby’s spoken thanks for his work. They would cycle in and out, the church he laid under obliged to clear the space for new tributes, which they had learned fast would build up much quicker than for the others who laid beside him. He had never left the minds of the citizens of New York. Not really.

Peter Parker had died, yet Spider-Man lived on. He swung from building to building, as comfortable in the skies as if he’d been born there, definitely not dead; still very much alive. It was a thought that had crossed the minds of many — of journalists, of villains, of contemplative citizens, even of Spider-Man himself — whether or not the city would have accepted the new hero if not for the passing of the previous one. It left a sour taste in the mind of those who lingered on it too long, so it was usually left as nothing more than a passing thought. Though, for some it remained.

The new Spider-Man was an interesting case, because, in theory, huge masses of people were often opposed to quick and unexpected change. It seemed the new Spider-Man had lucked out (though any turn of phrase donning the circumstances of his beginning as Spider-Man as something ‘lucky’ would be inconsiderate at best). And with one Spider-Man’s identity known and broadcasted, the other couldn’t help but be a source of intrigue.

There were a few facts to consider. 

  1. It was public knowledge that both Mary Jane-Parker and May Parker knew about the first Spider-Man’s identity before his passing. It stood to reason that maybe the new Spider-Man had someone he trusted with that information, too. 
  2. Peter Parker didn’t have any younger siblings, or younger cousins. The new Spider-Man probably wasn’t related to him. There was no way to know for certain that those who knew Peter Parker’s identity knew the new one’s.
  3. This new Spider-Man had been in the position for a year, now. Surely he had time to tell someone? There must be someone out there who knew his identity, right? Even just a friend?



 

* * *

_goodbye im gonna jump off a bridge my dad definitely knows_

 

_wow nice to know you’re not overreacting at all._

_how do you even know that he knows?_

 

_look_

_…he does ok_

_you get to know these things with the spider sense_

 

_I KNOW that you know that I know that that’s not how it works_

 

_what?_

_???_

 

_Unless you have undeniable proof that he knows I’m chalking this up to you just being paranoid_

 

_ganke im dying i can’t believe you would do this_

_you know its actually more unlikely that he hasn’t figured it out by now_

_im surprised ive lasted this long_

 

_wasn’t there a point where you wanted to tell him?_

 

_yeah i want to TELL him i dont want him to FIND OUT_

_and not for a long time_

 

_what’s the difference?_

 

_if i tell him i at least have some control over the situation lmao_

 

* * *

Evidence was piling up. 

Well, maybe not piling up. Maybe not even stacking up on top of one another; it was more like evidence occasionally breezed under the door and flitted around the room. But this evidence scattering on the floor of a room was petty damning in and of itself when previously it wasn’t known the room the evidence found itself in had even existed. Plausible deniability was not an option anymore; at this point if one were to look at all the facts and somehow not reach a conclusion, it would be a case of wilful ignorance at best. 

Jefferson Davis never claimed to be anything more than what he was. He wasn’t a detective, he wasn’t a scientist, he wasn’t an artist. Too much time was taken out of his day to worry about any of that, when above all he was an officer of the law, a husband, and he was trying his hardest to be a father. 

Well, he _was_ a father. He was just trying to be a good one. It was just a bit challenging, though, since in his context, he wasn’t even entirely sure what would constitute the ‘goodness’ of his parenting. 

His only son was New York’s own crime-fighting vigilante. Whether or not this was to Jefferson unbeknownst, or beknownst, even he wan’t sure. He’d never been one to question the identity of anyone wearing a mask — he often felt he didn’t need to. If this was how they wanted to be known to the world then fine, by all means, allow the citizens you share a city with to feel the same comfort you feel when associating with the mask; anyone opposing you won’t pull any punches when they disagree with such a far-off concept to them as _Spider-Man,_ and those on your side will fall over themselves even quicker to project their perfect image of whoever they want _you_ to be onto the mask. Jefferson wasn’t one to pull red strings between pins, asking himself _who is the man under the mask?_

And yet, with all that considered, evidence was piling up.

The search was happening _to_ him, hypotheses appearing in his mind unwanted. If there even was something for him to find out from all of this, he didn’t want any part of it. An investigation continued nonetheless — he’d say it was without his knowledge, somehow, even though it was being conducted in the back of his very own mind — pieces putting themselves together and revelations being made and reconsidered and remade and remade again. But at the end of it all, he knew it was ultimately fruitless. 

His subconscious already knew the facts, it was just up to Jefferson to admit it to himself.

 

* * *

“What do you think Spider-Man does on his days off?”

“I…don’t know.”

“What coffee shop do you think he goes to? Do you think he’s still in school? I wonder what TV shows he likes…”

“…Who knows.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“Really, I am. Are you telling me you’ve never thought about Spider-Man in his civilian life? He wears a mask for a reason; he has to be _someone_ under there.”

“Yeah, he does wear a mask for a reason: so people don’t know who he _is_ under it. Why do you even care?”

“Why do you not?”

“Because…why would I? Who cares?”

“Come on.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you like Spider-Man?”

“I…”

“Well?”

“He…seems a little pretentious, that’s all.”

“Really? Are you kidding? He’s a hero of the people!”

“Yeah, exactly! That’s what I don’t like. Everyone’s always going on about how nice he is. Something about him rubs me the wrong way.”

“Like what? How he helps everyone? How he always saves the day? How he donates to charity?”

“He donates to charity? Are you kidding me?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I read that somewhere.”

“Ugh. I can’t believe him.”

“Oh, my god…”

“Stop smiling.”

“I’m just saying, I think if you got to know the guy, you’d like him a whole lot better.”

“Right. That’s _your_ dream, not mine.”

“Hey, I won’t deny it. I think he and I could make really good friends. I’ll bet you that if I ever see him in the street with his mask off, I’ll be able to recognise him immediately.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah…what? What’s so funny?”

“You’re an idiot. The good kind, though, don’t worry.”

Their laughter died down after a moment, the conversation moving on to something else entirely.

Miles hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He really hadn’t. But hearing the words ‘Spider-Man’ anywhere in his vicinity kicked off around several thousand instincts he had inside of him — was there danger around, and was someone calling for help? Was someone plotting to kill him under their breath? Had he been found out and was someone whispering about him behind his back? Was he wearing the suit right now? Was it showing through under his clothes? Or was he completely head to toe in the black in red, somehow forgetting to slip on his mask?

He looked down, assuring himself that yes, he was still in his school uniform, and no, there was no threat present — either that of immediate danger or of revealing his identity. 

It didn’t help to keep him off edge, though. He felt like he’d been slipping up lately, either that, or his dad was finally catching on. It felt like everything was coming to a head, like he was in the middle of a tipping point and he didn’t even know it; he couldn’t see how it would turn out either way. 

_Inevitable_ was a word that came to mind. Something inevitable.

It was raining where he stood. It was a Friday afternoon, and he’d just gotten off the train when a deafening crack of thunder and blinding shot of lightning had clued him in to the type of night it was going to be. He waited under the bus shelter, even though his bus had been cancelled, waiting for his dad to come pick him up.

Miles had texted him half an hour ago with no response. He had half a mind to cut his losses and dial 9-1-1 to get to him, or just give up entirely and swing back home through the rain, when a familiar _bwoop_ chirped from down the end of the street. 

Miles sighed. He didn’t understand why his dad couldn’t just beep the horn like any other normal parent. 

Behind him, the light conversation of others waiting for the bus continued indistinctly. Miles spent probably less than a second dashing from the bus stop to the car, and yet the rain had still managed to cut through his jacket and blazer, seeping onto his skin. He shivered as he sat down in the back seat and slammed the door shut, his clothes sticking to him like the desperate hands of zombies clawing for flesh, and his bag taking up valuable floor space next to his feet. 

“How was school this week?” His dad asked, pulling out into the street.

“Good.” It was a reflex at this point. 

“Anything interesting happen?”

“Um. Not really.”

The car was silent for a few seconds, moments, minutes. 

The rain was pelting down on the windows, like an inconsistent drumbeat made by inexperienced hands.

 

* * *

Anxiety was building up inside Jefferson.

He was no stranger to nerves, hell, he got them every day, but by now he knew how to control them. This feeling in his gut was something different. And he didn’t really know what to do with it.

“Miles, can we talk?”

He hoped he was doing the right thing. 

Either Miles was Spider-Man, or he wasn’t. The back of his mind still maintained that it knew the answer — _what else could the answer be?_ Who _else could he be?_ — Jefferson would quiet it down before it would get too loud, choosing instead to focus on his voice of reason. 

“Yeah, Dad. Is something wrong?”

He’d be having this conversation either way.

“Maybe.”


	8. in achieving equilibrium

“Miles, can we talk?”

Nothing good came out of someone _asking_ to talk. If they had something nice or inconsequential to say, they would just come out and speak their mind, apropos of nothing. Human society ran on these rules, most likely from all the way back to day one. The first hunter gatherer to ever be asked _“Can we talk?”_ didn’t even have any reference point, but absolutely still knew that something bad was about to happen.

Miles saw it coming, then, what this conversation with his dad was going to be about. It rang through his head, like clockwork: _he knows, he knows, he knows, he knows…_

“Yeah, Dad. Is something wrong?”

The _something wrong_ was the fact that he had got bitten by a radioactive spider and now punched super villains as a side gig. If this conversation was going to go there, Miles might as well lead it to its destination to hurry it along. He’d been stalling for almost four hundred days at this point. 

“Maybe.”

His dad didn’t look at him, so he didn’t see the look of utter discomfort that crossed Miles’s face. What the hell kind of vague answer was that? 

His dad cleared his throat. “Miles, there’s something I need you to know,” he said, but didn’t talk for a while yet.

They sat in silence for a few moments, a comfortable space between them on their living room couch. Miles patiently waited for his dad to find his words. When it seemed they came to him, he straightened his back, not looking Miles in the eye, and took on an expression that Miles felt was closer to something he’d seen on him when they’d met as Spider-Man and Officer Davis — a demeanour that he’d thought his dad would hesitate before showing in their home. Miles looked down.

“Sometimes, people will keep secrets from each other for their own good. It’s…like a white lie, you know? If they knew, it’d only hurt them.” Miles’s breath seemed to be having trouble pushing out of his lungs. His dad’s words were all separated and clear, like he’d been checking and re-checking them again over and over before he spoke them. He looked up at his dad again as he took another pause, and couldn’t help but notice it was like he was trying to figure out a maze, only to be continually met with dead ends. His dad started talking again, voice near monotone; direct and demanding. “But, in our family—”

“I’m Spider-Man,” Miles whispered, almost to himself.

Miles scrunched his eyes closed and recoiled into himself. He could feel his face burning up and his heartbeat begin to race as his body stiffened, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the cushions of the couch and never be seen again. 

He just couldn’t take it anymore. He had to tell him. And Miles was aware that his dad must have found out long before this conversation, but there was some strange logic in his head dictating that if he just told him _right now,_ he managed to get it out first before his dad could find out any other way. He cursed himself out in his mind: he’d spent so long keeping his identity secret, did he really just _blurt it out?_ He tried to convince the panicking side of his brain that this was good, and what he wanted, while the panicking side tried to convince him that this was the end of the world and possibly the absolute worse snap decision he’d ever made in his life. Miles was surprised he hadn’t started screaming at this point. He cringed even harder.

He couldn’t see his dad, but could tell that he’d softened up from the police officer exterior. Yet again they sat in silence for what must have been days on end, before his dad sighed.

“…I know.” Miles hung his head. “It’s…okay, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Miles said, his words coming out uneven and unsure.

“…For what?”

Miles looked up at his dad, confused. He couldn’t exactly say he was able to predict how his dad would finally react to the news, but even so, this was unexpected. He must have caught him in a good mood. 

Miles didn’t reply.

“It’s okay,” his dad repeated, “mostly. I have known for a bit, even if I didn’t admit it to myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Miles repeated, sighing. Sorry for not telling him sooner, for leaving it so long — for letting him find out before Miles told him. “How long did you know?”

His dad tutted his tongue and sucked in his breath through his teeth. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe a month? It made too much sense for me to ignore.”

Miles restrained himself from apologising again. “Are you…mad?”

His dad furrowed his brow, looking past Miles. “I don’t think so?” Miles made a face of discomfort. “I’m mostly worried,” he clarified. 

That made sense. Even if he couldn’t predict whether his dad was going to be angry, disappointed, happy, distressed or accepting, he knew that whichever way it went there would be an underlying current of worry. He tried to not get too annoyed by it, reasoning that it came from a place of love. 

“You do incredible things, Miles. Things I could never dream of, things I didn’t even know you were capable of. It’s amazing watching you— but, the thing is…” He shrugged, shaking his head. “Now that I know it’s you doing all this, these wonderful and _insanely dangerous_ things…it’s gonna be hard for me to know you're doing them.”

Miles considered his dad for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Do you…want me to stop being Spider-Man?”

His dad didn’t answer, sitting up straight again, still not looking Miles in the eye. Everything except his mouth was saying ‘yes.’ 

“I’m not going to.”

“I know,” he said curtly. “But, Miles, Peter Parker—”

“Helped me be Spider-Man!”

“He died on the job!”

The shout hung in the air for a few seconds, resonating between them. 

Miles huffed. “Well, I’m not him.”

“Exactly.” Miles narrowed his eyes. “He was older, and more experienced than you, and the job still got to him.”

“Dad, you don’t understand…” He really didn’t. But Miles couldn’t exactly tell him about all the other versions of Spider-Man he’d met, all the other versions of just Peter Parker that proved that being Spider-Man wasn’t always a losing game. 

“What don’t I understand?”

“It’s…not like that.” He exhaled through his nose, searching his mind for something that would make his dad see his point of view. “Look, I even have more powers than Peter did!” He listed them off on his fingers. “I can turn invisible, I’ve got a venom strike…If anything, I’m _more_ equipped than he was.”

“You can do _what?”_

“Dad, I assure you, I am more suited to handle being Spider-Man than anyone else in New York. In the world, even. It’s what I’m meant to do.” He cringed internally at the cliche, but hopefully his conviction would bring his dad over to his side somewhat. 

His dad sighed. “You get this stubbornness from your mother.” Miles chuckled, keeping quiet about the fact that his dad should look in the mirror sometime. When his dad spoke again, his voice was soft. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Miles wouldn’t describe what he felt as his blood going cold, but his body definitely felt like it was running on a different engine as his dad asked that. It was like an out-of-body experience, like his emotions were doing their best to run and hide from the situation as his body sat there, only held up by strings. 

There was the cliche of ‘it was too dangerous for you to know,’ but Miles kind of wanted to avoid anything that would have his dad ban him from Spider-Manning for life. Not for the first time that conversation, Miles fumbled for what to say. 

“I…” He swallowed. “Didn’t you ever keep secrets from your parents?”

“Yeah,” he drew out the word, “but I was never a superhero going around fighting baddies.”

Miles flashed an awkward smile, but it probably just came out as a quick grimace. 

His dad sighed. “Miles, I’m sorry that you didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell me or your mother about this. You…you have told someone, though, right?”

Miles nodded. “Ganke.”

His dad nodded back. “He’s a good kid. If you trust him, he must be.”

“He is,” Miles reaffirmed, smiling now at the fact that his father had enough faith in him to trust what decisions he’d made about his secret identity. “And, I did want to tell you guys. I just thought you might…freak out?” He trailed off slightly at the end. 

His dad exhaled. “Well…it’s something we have to get used to more now. You making your own decisions and becoming independent. Even if it’s not…exactly in the way we imagined.” He locked eyes with Miles. “But you do have to help us get on the same page as you. We can’t be there for you or help you if we don’t know about anything that you have going on. Okay?”

It wasn’t anywhere close to the most outrageous thing his dad had asked of him, and although it made complete sense, it still scared Miles a little to give into what he was implying. If he was being honest, he had grown a little complacent in keeping Spider-Man from his parents. The whole secret identity was a routine at this point, and he’d fallen somewhat comfortably into having two lives.

But how much more stress could he take? Sure, he’d been keeping this up for a year now, but had it even been easy? With injuries, compartmentalising both sides of his life, exams, homework and daily crime, how much longer would he be able to go at it with hardly anyone in his corner? It was either change or burnout, and they were both daunting.

“No more secrets?” His dad offered.

Miles considered it. “How about…no more _life threatening_ secrets.”

His dad dropped the tone in his voice. “Miles…”

“Come on,” he pleaded.

His dad rolled his eyes, smiling. “Fine.”

Miles enveloped his dad in a hug, which was gladly returned.

 

* * *

Jefferson ran into his son on a weekday afternoon, three days before he was supposed to pick him up from school. There was an apparent criminal being held in temporary custody, or whatever Spider-Man’s webs could be classified as, as they met by chance. 

“Officer!” He no longer had that phoney deep voice he used to put on when they’d met before, but Jefferson noticed he did keep some distance. “I caught this man drunkenly trying to break into that office there. I think that car over there’s his and uh…you might wanna check it out.”

The man webbed up below from where Spider-Man was perched on the wall of a building slurred something or other. 

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” Jefferson said. “But it _is_ a weekday, are you sure there’s not any other responsibilities you should be taking care of? Aren’t there midterms coming up?”

Spider-Man laughed awkwardly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir. I’m just here doing my job.” Despite the mask, Jefferson could tell his face was pulled into a grimace. 

“Are you absolutely sure? This isn’t the biggest crime, don’t you usually let the police take care of these things? It seems to me like you might be avoiding something. Maybe something to do with physics?”

Spider-Man backtracked up the wall. “Well, you know what, officer...it looks like you can probably handle this guy on your own. I’ll just, uh…” He scuttled up a few feet more. “Thank you for your service. See you later.” He jumped off the side of the building and in one swift movement was swinging through the skies, back in the general direction of Visions Academy.

Jefferson smiled to himself, shaking his head. One day, he’d figure out what to do with that kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy moly you guys!! that's it!! it's done! we got to the end :OO
> 
> this is the first multichapter fic ive completed in a LONG time and i'm honestly so proud of myself for making it to the end, and i'm so glad you guys could join me on the journey!! i hope you all enjoyed it :D
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [king--gary.tumblr.com](http://king--gary.tumblr.com/), so come hmu if you wanna chat abt spiderverse, writing, or just anything in general! it was so much fun writing this fic and getting feedback from you guys, and ngl ill miss it :')
> 
> thank you all so so much for reading! :D


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